


Venom

by Luciiferous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dysphoria, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pre-Calamity, Self-Harm, Trans Male Character, forced infertility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-31 22:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18323483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luciiferous/pseuds/Luciiferous
Summary: Estinien is a stubborn, impulsive bastard. Aymeric feels he has to save him.





	Venom

**Author's Note:**

> some self indulgence

The Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly was, by official explanation, established in a location that allowed strategic defense of the Pillars and all the religious iconography held within.

It also allowed perfect strategic access to the Forgotten Knight; which, at every evening’s eighth toll of the bell, saw to the overflow of knights that the Congregation’s mess halls couldn't accommodate.

Aymeric was exceedingly fond of the place. Though as of late most of its chairs had been stolen for firewood, the food and, more importantly, drink was good enough to bear with having to stand. And if one drank enough, it no longer seemed repulsive to sit on the concerningly sticky floor as an alternative.

It was also one of the few places where temple knights and dragoons could mingle freely. Usually sectioned off in their day-to-day routines, the temple knights in the Foundation and the dragoons in the Pillars, close friends were often pried apart once their life paths split. Bar any chance encounters within the city itself, for many their only hope became to see their friends on the battlefield-- and not have to retrieve their remains by the end of the campaign. Though even that was considered more fortunate than the alternative; in that, there was at least closure.

But the Forgotten Knight, for those who could stand it, offered a small reprieve. And while Aymeric had his fair share of nobleborn comrades within the knight's order, he never failed to trek down to the bar every afternoon with the hopes of catching his most elusive, and most prized, of friends.

His efforts often went unrewarded for weeks, even months at a time. But when Estinien did eventually show, it made his every visit worth it. Terrible company though he was, Aymeric cherished the knowledge that he was hale and whole-- which is why his latest prolonged absence was starting to become concerning.

And maybe that showed on his face, because once Gibrillont spied him from within the crowd of bawdy knights, he called out, “AWOL again I'm afraid, Aymeric.”

The thread of hope keeping him upright then snapped, dropping his shoulders and his expression. He sighed a small “oh,” and laid down a few coins on the counter.

Gibrillont brought him a drink larger than what his meager pension would afford. “He's alright, I'd bet anything. That one's too stubborn to die on us.”

“I'm… Sure you're right, but it's been eating at me all the same.” He swirled his drink without sipping, staring at the foam as it collapsed into the whirlpool he had created. “Has no one mentioned--?”

“I've heard nothing, sadly. Plenty of horror stories from the Stone Vigil, but none mention any dragoons in the fray.” His unattended patrons were starting to get rowdy; with sympathy in his eyes, he patted Aymeric’s shoulder. “Keep your head up. He's probably just fucked off into the woods again.”

His bluntness managed to spark a small laugh. It was a welcome reprieve from the formality he was forced to endure in his daily life. “Right. Thanks, Gibrillont.”

Taking his stein and pulling himself away from the counter, Aymeric retreated to the hearth, leaning against the cool stone with a view up the staircase. But it wasn't the clatter of drachen armour or spurs that came rushing down them; within not but ten minutes of settling in, an out of breath, young pauper of a knight came barreling inside shouting something about the Vault Deacons.

A number of more senior knights surrounded him, Aymeric among the lot, and tried to calm the boy down.

“Alright, alright, easy lad,” one man said, pressing his tankard of ale into the boy’s hands and encouraging him to drink. “There you are. So what's all this, then?”

“The…” The boy stuttered, choked. “The Deacons are in a right state! They say someone stole summat from the Vault!”

“Stole something?” Aymeric parroted.

“Yesser. Says it was a dragoon what did it.”

Before he could question that detail further, he was interrupted by another knight; older, gruffer, and as stout as the beer he gestured with. “But what was stolen?”

“I-- I don't know!” The kid stammered, growing pale with so many eyes on him. “Some… M-medicine, or somethin’ to that effect. For the heretics and whatnot. Wyrm…? Wyrm's somethin’?”

A hush fell over the crowd, the cold chill of silence and dread cut only by Gibrillont’s calls to break up the crowd and give the boy some space. As patrons dispersed, their chatter resumed; but this time muted, their joviality smothered.

It wasn't difficult to start putting the pieces together. But Aymeric couldn't entirely recall what this ‘wyrm’ concoction was, or why Estinien would have need of it. Besides, to so quickly assume his dearest friend was a thief… A pang of guilt shot through his heart. Surely Estinien wouldn't--

“Wyrm’s bile, aye, I know it well.” The raspy voice came from a regular of the bar, an often silent, all too serious veteran with one eye and half an arm to show for his service. Though his voice was not raised, it caught the ears of several nearby knights. “I know it well…”

The old man stared deeply into his drink and for a moment, it seemed as if he would not continue. But, desperate to put his fears at ease, Aymeric fought against his better manners to speak up and ask, “What-- does it do?”

Cracking a yellow smile, the man said “Surprised you don't know. But maybe that's a blessing. Aye… Surely a blessing.

“‘Tis a poison, of sorts. Meant to make womenfolk unable to bear babes. The Inquisitors used it-- use it still-- on heretics who have lain with dragonkind. But they could no more carry the child of any man or beast, if even they survived the ordeal.” He lifted his gaze to meet Aymeric's, but his single eye seemed to be focusing miles afar. “I've seen it administered. The way that lass screamed, the blood… If only she had not chosen such a life. If only she had not…”

The man trailed off, still staring into the past, but Aymeric let him go. A sense of dread had firmly lodged itself in his stomach-- he knew then, knew that his assumptions were correct. He could only hope that finding Estinien would be as easy.

His legs moved before his mind did, barely remembering to set his drink down before bolting from the bar and to his barracks. He needed armour, a cloak-- two cloaks, he corrected himself-- and several layers underneath it all. It was a bitterly cold night to spend in the wilderness, and he only had the slightest inkling of where Estinien might've gone. He could be riding for hours, and every hour wasted in travel was another grain in Thal's proverbial hourglass. He needed to hurry, needed to go--

“Damn it!” He swore loudly, fumbling with his sword belt.

There was a rustling from the bed behind him; Handeloup, who he had not even realized was in the room. “Mm… Aymeric?” His fellow knight and, by all accounts one of Aymeric's more trustworthy friends, muttered tiredly. “What're you doing?”

He hesitated for only a moment before deciding that his aid would be wise to have. “Get up. We need to find Estinien.”

“Estinien? Why, what’d he do?”

“I believe he might've stolen something,” Aymeric admitted.

“Oh?”

“From the Vault.”

“ _Oh_.”

Handeloup took markedly less time to get dressed.

Making their way out of the Foundation, they managed to run into a drunken Artoirel and a miserably sober Haurchefant. The eldest Fortemps son was hanging off the shoulder of the youngest, singing an off-key, vulgar tune with only the raunchiest parts remembered, swinging his finger like a conductor. He swayed so much that he nearly toppled both of them, and Aymeric just barely managed to avoid being elbowed as he sidestepped past.

“Excuse us, Lords Fortemps, but we--”

“Lord Fortemps,” Artoirel corrected. “Just the one. Th'bastard isn’t any Lord of our house.”

Meekly, Haurchefant began to protest. “Actually…”

“Shut'it.”

Deciding that they absolutely did not have time for this, Aymeric and Handeloup nearly manage to escape before Haurchefant singsong voice piped up again, asking “Sers… Where are you going in such a rush? Did something happen?”

Though amicable enough, Aymeric did not initially consider this a matter he wanted to concern with him. The fewer people who knew, or who even had the chance of knowing, the better. But just as Handeloup was about to speak-- likely sharing his sentiments though for vastly different reasons-- Aymeric remembered an anecdote about the Greystone boy which made him an extremely attractive party member.

“Haurchefant,” he called, putting a hand out to stop Handeloup. “Could you allow us the use of your family’s fastest birds? Just for one night? It's an… Emergency.”

“By the Twelve, what’s happened?”

“I'll tell you on the way there, but we need a skilled rider with us. Please.”

Haurchefant nearly let Artoriel drop to the ground in all his surprise, but said, “O-of course. I'd be honored to help!”

It took longer than Aymeric would’ve liked for them to reach the Fortemps manor, and longer still for Haurchefant to fetch and bridle the chocobos, but within the hour they’ve taken off on blackened wings and all but charged the Gates of Judgement just as the night guards were changing shifts, slipping under the raised gate in a move that definitely violated protocol. Aymeric threw a half-assed apology over his shoulder and gave little thought to the earful he’d receive the next morning. If he heard Handeloup’s unrestrained ‘woop!’ of defiance for the rules he otherwise so devoutly followed, he chose to ignore it for plausible deniability.

Pulling ahead of the pack, he guided them into taking a sharp left towards Dragonhead. It was a long shot, but his strongest intuition-- Estinien couldn’t have gone far on foot, especially if his heist were only mere hours ago. But like a house cat, he tended to seclude himself in small, familiar places when sick or injured; assuming he would be both, the mostly-vacated ramparts of Steel Vigil were his best bet. Given the recent attacks on Stone Vigil and the ongoing construction of Camp Dragonhead proper, there would be few knights stationed there, and those who were were likely to be inside on such a miserable night.

“We’re making for Prominence Point!” He shouted over the blustering wind, hard flakes of sleet stinging his cheeks.

Haurchefant, gifted rider that he was, had no trouble catching up and keeping pace. “Mildthryth might’ve seen him pass through! We can stop at the Camp to--”

“There’s no time for that!”

“It would take longer to backtrack if he isn’t there!” Haurchefant argued quite reasonably. But reason wasn’t driving Aymeric’s urgency.

Handeloup, slower and having to shout twice as loudly to compensate, added “He’s right, Aymeric! We should at least check!”

Outnumbered, he swore viciously under his breath. But yielding to their demands, it was all he could do to keep himself from jumping off his bird and continuing the search on foot when they eventually slowed to a halt, his nerves fraying further with every passing moment.

Sensing his unease, Haurchefant spared him a worried glance. “I-I’ll be just a moment, ser! You’ll hardly notice I’m gone!”

He disappeared into the largest warmly-lit tent that dotted the site. Bags of sand, mountains of bricks and long beams outlined what would soon be buildings and walls, such humble materials turning into bastions high and strong enough to oppose the horde. The plans they outlined were ambitious; it seemed that few had faith in Steel Vigil to fair any better than its Stone sister.

Aymeric’s steed stamped her feet-- his restlessness was rubbing off on her.

“Easy,” Handeloup warned, though it was unclear whether he meant the bird or Aymeric himself. “We’ll be off again shortly.”

“Twelve willing…”

“What did he steal, anyhow? It must be something drastic if you’re this concerned.”

Aymeric worried his bottom lip, chapped and bitten bloody. “I’ll… Explain when Haurchefant comes back. And when we find him,” he adds, hoping this would be the last diversion of the night.

Thankfully, they weren’t to wait much longer. Mildthryth had indeed spied a shadowy dragoon lurking outside the camp. Her nervous knights nearly mistook the spikes of his armour for those of a dragon, but he managed to escape without serious injury. It was all Aymeric needed to hear before tearing off northbound.

He rode as if possessed until coming upon the gates of the Vigil, pulling up on his reigns so sharply that his steed nearly took flight. Once his compatriots caught up and dismounted, they all assembled into a small circle.

“Listen,” Aymeric implored. “Whatever you hear or see, you will tell absolutely no one. Are we all in agreement?”

He received two nervous nods.

“Thank you. Now if anyone asks, Estinien stole the Wyrm's Bile to dispose of a heretic. You don't have to know what that means, only--”

“Wyrm's Bile?” Handeloup interjected, eyebrows raised. “Seven Hells, that's a cruel poison.”

“Yes. And he stole it to eliminate a lead. Above everything else, remember that. No matter what you see, or what it might look like.”

Again, his partners in collusion nodded silently. He had assumed it would be more difficult to convince them, but out from underneath the eyes of Saints and catechists, they were nothing more than three miscreant boys searching for a fourth. Whatever were to happen in Steel Vigil that night was to stay there.

With all that settled, Aymeric made his third request; “Right then-- I’m going to need a boost.”

* * *

 

Gods, he never noticed how bright the night could be.

Estinien no longer felt the breeze that tousled his hair, nor the chill that came with it. Sitting on the ledge of a wide arrow loop, one leg dangling over the side, he would’ve slumped completely over by now if not for the stones at his back.

Clouds swirled dizzily over Ishgard, the city a mass of spires and small lights. Few stars shone through the overcast skies but those that did bounced their light off banks of snow and the glimmer of ice. But perhaps it would not have mattered if there were any light at all-- for to Estinien's eyes, the whites of winter nearly glowed with their own light, and even the deepest shadows felt blue and bright. His vision was starting to blur, bleeding the edges of things both near and far. But where his eyes were failing, his sense of hearing felt impeccable-- and the drip of blood as it trickled from stone to stone made him grin.

He had been warned not to stab the poison directly through the abdomen, as he had wanted to do-- the chance of piercing the bladder or the intestines was too great, and either would surely result in death. Though he could feel the outline of that damnedable organ though his skin, he thought it best not to challenge such vital wisdom. Thus the full length of the needle had to be used-- up through his body's cavity and further still, until it hit the wall that marked its target. It was an agonizing pain at first, but nothing compared to the reaction it would soon cause.

Accessing the injection site required him to disrobe, but although he managed to shuffle back into his set of hempen trousers, his body had begun to spasm and seize before he could fully don his armour again. Thus he sat half-clad in his mail, bare feet gone blue and numb, blood soaking through the few layers he did manage to get on.

It looked as black as tar in the starlight.

Suddenly from far off, he heard a commotion. The sound of distant voices shouting, bickering-- and it must've been far off indeed, since the drip-drop of blood was still so prominent in his ears, and that was such a quiet sound to pick out.

He heard yet another noise shortly after, this one more odd, more pressing-- the scrape of something against stone, and while he briefly thought to turn his head and check behind him, he found he could no longer summon the strength to do so. He had to content himself with simply wondering what it could be. A dragon, perhaps? No, certainly not. The grind of its claws on the tower stones would be far more piercing, and he did not smell their foul blood.

“-inien!”

So what, then? An eagle, maybe, come to see if the carrion is still warm enough to scavenge? Maybe a guard returning to tend their post--

“Estinien!”

He felt a hand grip his shoulder-- warm, too warm-- and scowled. It was an unwelcome intrusion to his blissful chill. Drawing from the depths of his rage, he meant to jerk his arm away, but all his efforts only shifted him an ilm.

Fear began to prickle at his mind then. He did not like being defenseless in any instance, but with half his armour laying in a heap on the bloodied floor and his body already teetering on the edge of mortality, terror was the only thing his mind could offer him. But the sounds that came from his throat were barely his-- small whimpers of protest as his body was moved, muffled by the bile threatening to rise in his throat. He might’ve lifted his hands to try and bat at whomever was lifting him, or he might’ve not had the strength; he was barely aware of anything besides the blood sloshing in his ears, the vertigo as he was removed from his perch, and a shade of blue so obnoxiously fluorescent against the night that it was nearly nauseating to look at.

It was only when his abductor, unbalanced by his weight, stumbled backwards with a nervous yelp did he realize who it was.

Though he could not choke out his name, Estinien felt relief flood him just as quickly as the fear had. Clutching at the fur of Aymeric’s coat with weak fingers, he would no doubt think of himself as pathetic if he were in his right mind. But where once there was a hollow and empty acceptance that he was so close to death, the will to live had come back to him so suddenly that it nearly sent him into shock.

“Hey, shh, I'm here,” Aymeric said to him soothingly, placing a gloved hand over his blue fingers. There was panic in his eyes, too, and he tried to keep it from his voice with little success. “ _Fury_ , um… Here, let me--”

He knelt to the ground with Estinien’s head on his lap, body shaking as his blood-soaked trousers made contact with the cold stones. Aymeric glanced over him in full now that he was laid out and his face paled once he took in the full extent of damage done. Shrugging off his coat, he did his best to wrap it around Estinien's waist like a makeshift blanket.

“Give me one moment-- I will be back, I'm just going to throw your armour over the wall,” he said, and Estinien could only nod, too weak to even question that statement.

He watched with dispassionate eyes as Aymeric gathered armfulls of his grieves and tassets, hobbled to a gap in the wall and shouted something before tossing the armour over. The sound of other, foreign voices answering him made Estinien tense like a cornered cat-- as desperate as he was to live now, he loathed the idea of having to trust others in his time of need, especially with such a delicate situation as this.

Returning to the pile for the last bits of armour, Aymeric discovered the syringe that had rolled against the wall. Carefully, he picked it up as if it might turn around and bite him without warning. The needle was enormous, and its glass body showed no more than a droplet or two of the poison still left unused. Holding it like this, he couldn't help but marvel at the anguish Estinien must’ve gone through, what torturous mindset could've led him to using such a volatile poison in the first place.

He looked up and out the arrow loop. If he tossed it right, he could send the syringe careening into the Sea of Clouds. And even if the wind caught it at a wrong angle or his arms weren't as reliable as he'd hoped, it would still likely catch on an edge of the cliff, never to be found again.

He reeled back and threw it without another thought. In the dark of night, it was gone from sight within mere moments; what happened to it from there was in the Fury's hands, and he could only pray for her mercy.

After disposing of the needle, he returned to Estinien's side.

“See?” He asked gently, trying to put the dragoon at ease like he might soothe a wounded animal. “I told you I'd be back. Now I'm going to lift you slowly, alright?”

Though Estinien nodded his agreement, he couldn't stop a hiss of pain as he was moved. His entire abdomen felt like an open wound, his bones little more than a jumble of loose parts inside his skin. And though normally able to drive a spear straight through the neck of his prey, his muscles felt too threadbare and weak to even support his own body, limbs hanging as limp as a doll’s as Aymeric brought him up to his full height.

“Okay, we're going to get you down now. Do you know if there's an open door…?”

Estinien shook his head weakly, voice sounding like loose gravel as he explained, “I... climbed.”

Aymeric should've known. All the same, he doubted Estinien could handle a fall from this height, even if Handeloup or Haurchefant managed to catch him safely. Their best bet would be the longest way down-- and with any luck, it would be quiet and uneventful.

“Alright, let's get going.”

Their first obstacle provided little resistance; the door to the rampart was unlocked. But the staircase leading down from there was partially open to the elements, with ice collecting in unpredictable puddles. Though Estinien was not particularly heavy, the spikes of his armour both obscured Aymeric's vision and made him awkward to maneuver. Any of the spines could pierce straight through bone if Aymeric were to trip; so he took the stairs slowly, cautiously, with several swears muttered under his breath and nonsensical reassurances to both himself and Estinien that they would be fine.

Terror jolted through his chest when they reached the ground floor and saw light coming from the open door, but Aymeric soon recognized the silhouettes as his companions and their birds. They had evidently stollen a lantern while waiting for his decent, and it was sorely needed-- the storm had picked up in full, and the night was so thick with clouds and snow that it almost threatened to choke them.

Bereft of his coat, Aymeric shivered ferociously in the gales-- but that mattered little to him. With few words the three men secured Estinien onto Aymeric's steed, blood still dripping onto their boots as they worked; Aymeric took the reigns behind him while Haurchefant and Handeloup carried back the scattered pieces of Drachen armour. If either of them noticed the way Aymeric cradled his dear friend’s head close to his chest, or graciously kissed the crown of his head, they said nothing of it.

They stopped twice on their return journey to let Estinien retch up some foul, brownish bile. Aymeric’s makeshift blanket had shifted loose on one occasion, but Haurchefant averted his gaze and Handeloup assisted with re-securing it in place, sharing a look with Aymeric that spoke volumes of his understanding. His choice of companions were both proving invaluable-- he felt certain that neither of them would speak of this night in naked truth, nor of Estinien's secret.

When they reached the Gates of Judgement, they made no attempt to sneak back through. Hailing the guards outright, it took only the sight of Drachen armour and a wounded dragoon for them to be ushered through hastily. But when it came to the moment Aymeric had to hand Estinien off to the chirurgeons, he hesitated, hands gripping his friend close and protective.

“I-- I believe he may be in too delicate of a state to move about so much,” Haurchefant said carefully, dismounting before moving between Aymeric and the medics. He held up his hands and plastered on a charming smile, trying to ease the tension. “Surely it wouldn't be a problem for Ser Aymeric to carry him to the hôtel-Dieu? ‘Tis only a short walk away, especially on birdback.”

“Aye,” said one of the chirurgeons come to collect him; “as you said, it is only a short walk. And it would be much easier to strip the man of his armour and have him laid on a stretcher before trying to get him inside. Our floors are hectic enough without chocobos and knights milling about. And, no doubt the Vault would wish to know what happened here posthaste. You lot are better off elsewhere.”

Haurchefant artfully cut in again before Aymeric could raise his voice. “Now, come, have we really resorted to stripping a dragoon of his armour in the streets just so--”

“I will carry him,” Handeloup declared, handing over his reigns to Haurchefant. “I have battlefield medical training. The man is bleeding profusely and needs to be wrapped in something warm-- give me some blankets and I'll take care of it. Alone.”

Aymeric’s grip loosened by barely a fraction when Handeloup came to his side, looking him straight in the eyes as he declared, “I will stay with him. You and Haurchefant go and talk with the Archbishop; doubtless you'll be better at that than I would.”

Finally, Aymeric was forced to relent. The moment Estinien was out of his arms, the full weight of what had happened seemed to slam into his chest all at once. He felt strangely distant from himself as he dismounted, the clamor of voices and feet scattering this way and that were all muffled. He was exhausted, and if it weren't for Haurchefant's cold fingers tugging at his wrist, he may have passed out on the cobblestones then and there.

“Come on,” Haurchefant encouraged him, pulling him away from the chirurgeons and the alleyway where Handeloup was attempting to preserve Estinien's vital secrecy. “They'll be fine, come on.”

Haurchefant led him first to the stables and then up to the Vault, never once letting go of his hand.

* * *

 

Aymeric visited Estinien's cot the very next day.

He was surprised to find him awake, nursing a mug of some warm, spiced drink that promised to help bring life back to his cheeks. His fingers were still deathly pale from his brush with mortality, and though he grinned up at Aymeric with a wild, fiendish gleam in his eyes, his face was thin and hollowed.

“Why,” Aymeric sighed, taking a seat beside the bed and burying his face in his hands. “Why did you do this.”

“I didn't have a choice.”

“You had plenty of choices,” Aymeric insisted, though he did not know if he spoke truthfully. “You could’ve-- you would have been fine if you hadn't risked--!”

“No. I wouldn't have.”

“Surely there were other methods…”

“Not for me. And none like this.” Estinien's hands shook even though he steadied the mug against his lap. He no longer met Aymeric's eyes as he spoke. “I couldn't handle that thought… The idea of something-- you know. If something ever happened. I didn't care how it was done, I just wanted it gone… Forever.”

“But--” Aymeric began, and then stopped himself. He knew better than to argue on matters like this, but he still felt as if there were instances where Estinien took it too far. Nearly dying in a frozen tower seemed like it warranted more of a reaction than his quiet compliance. “You could've died.”

“I didn't. And as long as it worked, I don't have any regrets about that.” A long stretch of tense silence followed, dragging on and on until it bore through the layers of Estinien's stubborn façade and allowed him to admit, “Well… None except for, perhaps, worrying you. I'm-- sorry you had to find me like that. I'm sorry you had to go looking.”

Aymeric's hands were balled into fists, resting atop his knees and bunching the fabric of his surcoat. “In truth, I half expected to find you dead.”

“... I did not expect it to be so volatile, I admit.”

“You could have _died_!” Aymeric snapped at last, standing so abruptly that his chair fell backwards. “I could've found your corpse!”

“You could find that any day!” Estinien retorted bitterly, falling back on the anger he knew so well. “Either of us could die on the battlefield, or we could die in our beds tonight! What does the method matter?”

“It matters because you would have done it to yourself! Willingly! You would've died for nothing but your own-- single minded fixation and left us all to pick up the pieces!”

Estinien snarled. “You wouldn't know what it's like to fear that some _thing_ could grow inside of you. That you would have to bear the horror of something moving in your body as a reminder of an assault or a mistake! You wouldn't know what--”

“I wouldn't, no. I will never know.” Aymeric took a breath to calm himself, trying to chose his words carefully. “But I do know that you and your life would be a shame to lose to that fear. That you have greater ambitions than fleeing your body. You have hunted Nidhogg for so many years now and you would've just-- thrown that all away on some risky attempt at sterilization?”

“I did not intend to die. I underestimated the potency of the--”

“You still took that risk, Estinien. And furthermore, you didn't tell anyone.”

He barked a laugh. “Told them what? That I intended to commit treason and steal a highly guarded poison from the Inquisitors? That I meant to inject myself with it, just throwing the truth about my body out there into the world?”

Quietly, Aymeric said, “You could've told _me_.”

The energy in the air died down to a low simmer of unspoken words, Estinien biting his tongue and looking away. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. And though he ended up on “I'm sorry,” it didn't feel substantial enough for all that he could, probably should, have said instead.

Aymeric, shoulders dropped and looking drained once again, only said, “I know.”

Estinien couldn't have foreseen the hug coming. He froze when Aymeric’s arms were thrown across his shoulders, face ducked into the crook of his neck.

“I forgive you.”

Hesitantly, Estinien raised a single hand to rest along his side. He began to relax into the hug in increments, noting how Aymeric smelled vaguely of soap and slightly of beer. After some time, he finally shut his eyes-- and then it was over.

Aymeric straightened back up and righted the fallen chair, wringing his hands as if he wasn't sure exactly where to place them. Estinien watched him measuredly.

“I'll-- see you in the Forgotten Knight once you're better, yes? I think you owe us all a drink.”

A scoff answered him. “Sure. The night will be on me.”


End file.
